“Castle never turned up in this one?”
“No. But Lancer did. I only remembered it when Bickell brought up his name.”
“I’ll search it.”
A pause, maybe ten seconds, before Sharpe got a hit.
“Here he is. One exchange only, in the chat transcript, right at the end.”
(LANCER) Need another shot of house under construction, all angles.
Cole’s reply was on the audio:
“Coming right up.”
Zach moved the camera onto the house and zoomed it while Cole slowly circled their Predator to allow for a prime view of all sides, a task that took about ten minutes.
“Got all you need?”
(LANCER) Yes thx.
Not long afterward the screen went blank. Mission completed.
Cole knew what came next, but he said nothing while Sharpe tapped at the keyboard and made a few clicks.
“Your mission with the missile strike is next. Ready?”
“Let’s skip ahead to the other recon job, the one Zach and I almost fucked up. I’m pretty sure Lancer’s on it. Might as well get all we can on him first.”
“Or maybe you just want to avoid the attack as long as possible.”
Cole shrugged.
“That’s my business. What time is it?”
“Almost three o’clock. I’ve gotta pee. And we could both use some water. Unless you want to break for lunch.”
“Let’s keep going.”
“Think we’ll finish today?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“I have to say, it’s been fascinating watching you. During these missions, I mean. The way your face changes, the look in your eye. Almost like you’re back up there in the sky with it, even now.”
Cole shrugged again, uncomfortable with the drift of the conversation, but Sharpe didn’t take the hint.
“What does it do to you, flying these things, day after day? Up here, I mean.” He tapped a forefinger against his bony head. “I know you fell off the edge for a while. From all the deaths, I figured. But even before that, how were you handling it — the sense of power, of being God, choosing when to bless and when to damn? You’d watch all those lives up close for hours at a time, and then manage their fates for them. It has to fuck with your mind, even when things are going splendidly.”
“What about for you, designing the damn things?” Cole’s voice had an edge. “Making them better and better, a little more godlike every time they roll out of the hangar? Or down somebody’s chimney, six at a time?”
“You don’t have to get angry about it.”
“I’d just like to hear you take some ownership. You act like it’s all our doing, the damn pilots. Or the Agency, the Air Force, the so-called powers that be.”
“They’re the ones abusing the power.”
“And you’re the one who gave it to them.”
“Fair enough. But if I hadn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah. If you hadn’t, then someone else would’ve. I could’ve said the same thing after Sandar Khosh, but it wouldn’t have made me sleep one bit better. So who let you off the hook? Or do you just never think about it?”
“Why do you think I’m out here, ready to take action, fighting fire with fire?”
“Guilt?”
“Or just plain old foolhardiness.”
“For thinking you really can put it back in the bottle?”
“Or at least rub my own lamp. How ’bout if I go pee now.”
“No one’s stopping you.”
Cole waited, staring at the blank screen. He heard the toilet flush down the hall, then the running of water from the tap. Sharpe brought him a full glass of water, which he downed in seconds. He felt depleted, wrung out, the same way he used to feel after about six hours in the saddle at Creech. It would be a relief to get this over with, but they were making progress, moving closer, even though he still couldn’t make sense of an end.
“The transcript says this was a recon of Charwala,” Sharpe said.
“That was the nearest village. The house with the bogeys was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and most of our recon was to secure the perimeter for an ops team setting up for a raid. Zach and I lost our focus and almost missed some other bogeys who came into the area. A firefight started before we could get our shit together. Then we put an IR beacon down on them and the whole thing was over pretty fast.”
“The God light?”
“Yeah.”
“Love that name.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Any particular place you want to begin?”
“Toward the end. End of the firefight, not the raid. I want to hear some of the audio. I was in touch with the unit by voice pretty much throughout. The ops CO seemed like regular Army, all the usual protocols and radio behavior. Very correct. His call sign was Gray Goose. Mine was Redbird. Then his second in command took over for a while, and I remember it feeling kind of skeevy. His handle was something like Duckhead, but it was more a matter of style. Like some dude who was used to things being a little more relaxed. I’m not a tight-ass so I let it go, but it was still odd. That’s also when Lancer chimed in, I think. I just can’t remember what he said.”
“Here we go, then.”
They sat through the tail end of the firefight like they were watching a movie. Shaky infrared images and bright green streams of gunfire. There was a cacophony of voices, picked up by the CO’s headset, and Cole called out a command from time to time.
“Redbird, I’m going to recon the area immediately forward of our position, up where my guys are securing the prisoners and collecting the wounded. So for the time being I’m shifting radio control to my second, Duckhead.”
“Affirmative, Gray Goose. Standing by for further contact from Duckhead.”
A few minutes later a new voice came onto the air.
“How we looking up there?”
“Still clear. Is this Duckhead?”
“You got it.”
“Quiet in all directions on your perimeter.”
“Cool. How’s the, uh, house looking? This place we’re hitting?”
“All quiet there as well, Duckhead. Lights remain on, no sign of movement.”
“In there watching Leno and Letterman, huh?”
“Sure thing.”
“Dude, it was a joke.”
“I figured as much, Duckhead.”
“Gotcha.”
Lancer then popped up on the chat screen.
(LANCER) Is that Chuck on audio?
“Uh, Duckhead, we have a chat correspondent Lancer who asks if you happen to be Chuck?”
“What’s Lancer’s real name?”
(LANCER) all i needed. thanx. tell him its all tight.
“Uh, Lancer says it’s all tight, Duckhead. No further ID forthcoming, though.”
(Laughter). “Got it, man. I know who it is. Keep it tight.”
That was the last transmission from either Duckhead or Lancer.
“I see what you mean,” Sharpe said, as the video played on in silence. “You get a decent look at any of the ops guys?”
“Nothing up close. Once they started their raid we were too busy watching for squirters, and threats on the perimeter. Why?”
“Those irregular units can look pretty unorthodox. Beards, nonregulation uniforms. Hats and bandanas when they’re supposed to wear helmets. Personal shit all over their flak vests.”
“Bickell said there were a lot of those types, half official or completely unofficial. Green badgers, sheep-dipped, he had all kinds of names for ’em.”
Sharpe shook his head.